


push and pull again as you untie the ends (baby, i need some recovery)

by TooManyGaysTooLittleTime



Series: Daensa Week 2021 [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Daensa Week, F/F, First Meetings, Future Fic, Game of Thrones? I don’t know it, Hopeful Ending, I’ve never made a timeline that makes sense and works with canon in my life, Minor Harrold Hardyng/Sansa Stark, Minor Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark, Minor Sansa Stark/Mya Stone, No Sex, Non-Consensual Kissing, POV Sansa Stark, POV Third Person, Petyr Baelish is His Own Warning, Pre-Relationship, Sansa’s time in the Vale is basically me in quarantine, Timeline What Timeline, as per canon, for one (1) moment, incredibly minor and not even romantic, mildly suggestive at the end, no no NO ao3 Daenerys/Sansa is meant to be AFTER the minor ships tag BAD AO3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:22:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29428770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime/pseuds/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime
Summary: Written forDay 1 of Daensa Week 2021 on Tumblr, prompt: First Dates or Meetings.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sansa Stark & Mya Stone, Sansa Stark/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Daensa Week 2021 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2165004
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	push and pull again as you untie the ends (baby, i need some recovery)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Rebecca Black’s](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DcO6q-vxrB8&feature=emb_title)[ “Do You?”](https://open.spotify.com/track/14XWHEf6k1wfimnCCV95vZ?si=IpiqjRirS8msz3MnAgMo4w)

Alayne Stone dies so that Sansa Stark can be reborn in a snow-white dress and pale-blue bridal cloak, a direwolf stalking through an embroidered forest on her back. 

She no longer has a direwolf, or her family, by her side, though, and the dress and cloak seem to be forgeries to her, imitations of true Stark garb. Sansa feels false even to herself. The lie of Alayne Stone is gone, and another fake has taken its place. 

Petyr smiles broadly at the sight of her, though, so she must be convincing. “You look almost like what I imagined Cat would look like, on her wedding day,” he says to her, stroking her newly-reddened hair. The dark dye is not quite washed out all the way, for her ends are still brown, and there are still strands of darkness that cannot be concealed, but most of it is red, and that is enough.

Sansa forces a smile to her face. “My thanks, Father.”

“Oh, my dear. You need not call me father any longer. To you, I am only Petyr.” He cups her cheek, his hand firm, keeping Sansa’s eyes fixed on his. “Say it. Try it out.”

She stumbles over the word, her tongue tripping up on itself. “P-Petyr.” 

“Very good.” His smile should not give her cause for concern, but she cannot shake the instinct inside her that still speaks with the voice of a scared little girl. Petyr places his hand on her shoulder, turns her to face the archway leading out to the ceremony alongside him. “Remember to speak only when you are told, and to remain elegant and ladylike during the ceremony.”

Tears are already starting to well up in her eyes, and Sansa tries to blink them away, but to no avail. “I don’t want to do this,” she whispers, sniffling into the shoulder of her cloak. The fabric is thick and warm, yet she can only feel icy-cold. “Please, Petyr...”

He shakes her shoulder, gently, but his fingers are still vicelike. “I like this even less than you, Sansa, but it is necessary.”

She knows she sounds pathetic as she says, “But—”

“No more objections. Come, dry your eyes. It shall be over soon.” He leads her from her bridal chambers and out towards the rows of pews, taking one of her gloved hands in his as he does so. Sansa blinks her tears away and pastes a vague imitation of a smile on her face as she rounds the stone pillar. 

Harry the Heir is already there, done up in pale blue doublet and breeches, the falcon of the Vale proudly rendered in grey embroidery, much like something that Sansa might have made back in Winterfell. His smile is wide and seemingly joyful, hands already extended in front of him, waiting for Sansa’s own hands to interlock with his and bind them together in holy matrimony.

Sansa wants to run, to tear away the heavy, false cloak and flee down the aisle. Run to anywhere but where she currently is. His hand, however, is still in hers, tying her down, so despite how much she wishes to, she cannot leave. 

Heavy chimes ring out as she progresses down the aisle, and her eyes remain set upon the ground, for she is not willing to look up and remember where she is. She wants to pretend until pretending is impossible, for with only stones to see, she can imagine that someone else waits for her. Someone that she truly loves.

All fantasies, however, must disappear when reality sinks in, and hers are soon forced away when Petyr murmurs to her to “keep your chin up and smile.” Her hands are placed in Harrold Hardyng’s, with her gloves left as the only thing separating her from him, and Petyr at last unhands her, but she is still passed over to another man. Sansa closes her eyes for a moment and hopes that he will not hurt her overmuch after the ceremony ends. 

“Who comes before the gods today to wed?” 

“I, Harrold Hardyng.” There is complete confidence in his voice, no worry at all, and for a moment Sansa wonders what unholy power gave him the cockiness and utter lack of fear that he demonstrates. 

He nudges her with a thumb pressed into her fingers. She stutters, “Um, I, Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

The priest continues, uttering vows that are meaningless to Sansa, and she cannot help her gaze as it drifts upwards, wandering from the pale stained-glass of the window to the outside, pale-blue sky with plentiful white clouds. She hopes, foolishly, for someone to swoop in and rescue her, but nothing happens, only the faint passing of the clouds. 

“Are there any objections to this marriage?”

Gods, Sansa wishes that someone in the audience will stand up and speak that one perfect word, _no_ , and end the ceremony. There is only silence, though. 

“Then let Harrold Hardyng and Sansa Stark be united in marriage forevermore.” The priest declares with a smile, a smile that is completely at odds with what Sansa is feeling. 

The audience of noble Vale lords and ladies clap politely, and Sansa’s stomach turns. Harry the Heir looks down at her, and she forces a smile to her face. 

* * *

Harrold is not unkind to her, but he does not love her, either. His attentions are focused entirely away from her, which allows Sansa time alone. She laughs and trades japes with Myranda and Mya, sees less of Petyr, and takes up embroidery again, if only for something to do. 

Outside of the Vale, Petyr tells her, there is news that Stannis Baratheon moves north against the Boltons who hold Winterfell, and that a Targaryen rises in the Stormlands. Sansa fears for the safety of her family, and Petyr tries to assure her that the Starks will emerge from the War of the Five Kings victorious, with Sansa at the head and Winterfell retaken in her name. Still, Sansa prays, although whether it is the gods of her father or the gods of her mother that she prays to, she does not know. 

And she waits, for that is what she must do. Sansa waits for the promised return to Winterfell, and in the mean time, she prays. 

She wonders if the gods hear her. 

* * *

“I had not expected that you were a noble,” Mya says, stumbling over the words. “You seemed to be a bastard, just like me — you seemed to _understand_ me, when no others had.”

Sansa gives her a tired smile. The wind whips her hair about her face, and she brushes a dark-red strand away from her mouth. “I suppose I have grown good at pretending by now, if I managed to fool even a bastard.”

They stand there in silence for a while, Sansa’s cheeks growing red-raw and cold, snowfall spiralling through the air. Winter in the Vale is strong, indeed, but it is nothing compared to the Northern winter, where the snows come in thick enough to bury cart-horses beneath. Sansa does not speak of the North, though.

“You are going to leave me one day,” Mya tells her, “return to the North. Aren’t you?”

She turns away from Mya, watches the snow fall. She cannot stand to look at Mya when she says it. “Yes, I will have to leave the Vale to take back Winterfell from the Boltons.” 

Mya takes it surprisingly well, with no tears dripping down her cheeks even though her eyes turn glassy. “Well, I’ll miss you.”

Sansa is the first one to shed a tear. “I, too.” She embraces Mya, feeling her strong arms surrounding her. Mya is steady and stable, much like her mules, and Sansa instinctively knows that Mya will not be hurt overmuch when she leaves. 

* * *

Then one day, the ravens bring word that the tide of war turns against the Lannisters. Kevan Lannister is dead, and Cersei has returned to the regency, but her control over King’s Landing grows weaker. Petyr’s eyes grow eager, his smile mean. Sansa is scared, but not for herself. 

He pets her hair and tells her “Soon, soon, you shall have Winterfell on a platter.”

Harrold seems to forget her, on occasion, but her friendship with Mya and Myranda is enough to satisfy her in his absence. Neither of them seem to understand what Sansa feels, though, and she can already feel the bonds forged between them starting to break away. It hurts more than she had thought it would.

Finding sleep grows difficult: she often finds herself wandering the Eyrie, blinking at the darkness, 

* * *

The Vale starts to feel like a prison. A direwolf is not made to fly, and falcons are not made to roost with a direwolf amongst them. 

Petyr keeps telling her to wait, that the time is not yet right for her to take back Winterfell. Her patience frays, her embroidery grows messier than even Arya’s had been, the stitches crooked, and she takes to loneliness, shunning even the company of Myranda and Mya. 

Sansa is eager for any news, and begins to linger around the aerie, waiting for a raven to return and bring word of the happenings outside of the Vale. It is through this eagerness that she learns of Daenerys Targaryen. 

This raven enters the aerie in a bedraggled state, and Sansa takes it into her arms and holds it there as she gently plucks the letter off its foot. She supposes that it is natural for one ‘little bird’ to care for another little bird in distress, as she strokes its feathers back into neatness and warms it with her touch. While she cares for the bird, she unfurls the parchment and reads over the letter. 

She knows not the first name, but the second is immediately familiar to her: _Targaryen._ It stirs up a faint anger in her, remembering what Aerys had done to her family, but she puts aside the anger to read through the letter. 

_Dear noble lords of Westeros,_

_In the east, the dragons have risen again. I sail for Westeros, and you should be trembling, for I bring war against the injustice and the troubles that have plagued the Seven Kingdoms. The world will be cleansed in fire and blood, and a new order will emerge out of its ashes. There is a poison at the heart of Westeros, and I will burn it out to the roots._

_The innocent need not fear me; I come to protect and serve them, to be the rightful Queen they deserve. I come to claim my inheritance: the Iron Throne of Westeros. As for the lords who have held domain over the Seven Kingdoms for too long, you should fear me, for I will burn your corruption away._

_Do not doubt that my promises shall come to pass, for I have seen that they shall happen in the smoke and visions of the Free Cities. My dragons are by my side, and they are far more loyal than any noble._

_I promise that you will feel true fear when I arrive._

_— Daenerys Targaryen, khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea and Mother of Dragons_

Sansa bites her lip to keep from making a loud noise of surprise, rereads the letter again as she blinks. Each word she reads brings a smile to her face, gratitude for this woman she barely knows. The letter promises freedom, liberation, and it makes the future almost seem clear and _there_ before her, a future where Sansa need not stay in the Vale and keep waiting for a dream of Winterfell, _home_ , that may never arrive. 

Although she knows it is foolish, Sansa puts the raven down, closes the cage door around it with a squawk, and tucks the rolled-up parchment away in a pocket to hide it. Nobody questions her as she walks to her rooms and shuts the door behind her. Once inside, away from any wondering eyes, she unfurls the parchment again and turns it over to the blank side. Taking a quill of white feather and a pot of dark ink, she dips the tip of the quill in ink and puts it to the parchment. The words flow easily, a river running unhindered. 

_Dear Daenerys Targaryen,_

_It is I, Sansa Stark of Winterfell, who write to you asking for your support, for I am trapped by an unhappy marriage in the Vale, and wish to escape but am unable to. I need your help, and I want to be beside you as you create your new world with fire and blood._

_You say you have dragons; I have no help of my own to offer except my counsel and my friendship, but I hope you shall take pity on my situation and bring your assistance to my aid. I suppose I am very far away from you — that may not matter to a dragon, though, or to a queen of your strength._

_I may bring very of use to you, but you have promised to help the innocent in distress, and I am an innocent in distress — so will you not help me s you have said?_

_— Sansa Stark of Winterfell_

She rolls the parchment up and ties it with twine before tucking it back into a discreet pocket. Her hands shake a little as she replaces the quill and ink, with equal parts nervousness and excitement. 

Nobody casts a suspicious glance at her as she heads for the aerie, her eyes flicking about with an air of guilt. The aerie is empty as well, the raven squawking in the cage where she had left it. Reaching into the cage, she cradles the bird in her hands and takes it out, leaving the cage door swinging open. 

Tying the parchment about the bird’s leg with the twine, she perches it on her hand (covered by a leather glove) and holds it out of the window, the stone of the tower digging into the soft skin of her stomach through her dress. The bird is held aloft on her hand, and for a moment she is at peace with the Vale, pale and snow-covered, stretching before her. 

Then the bird lets out an errant squawk, and leaps off her hand, the parchment flapping where it is tied on its leg. “Wait—” Sansa nearly yells, seeing that the knot is starting to come loose. She reaches out of the window, trying to snatch at the bird’s leg, but it is already flapping away, dark wings making an ink blot against the snow, and she can only watch with a sick, sinking feeling in her stomach as the twine starts to loosen, the knot pulling apart.

And the parchment falls, twisting and curling in the wind as it spirals down, down, down.

Another tiny piece of hope gone. 

* * *

She learns through Petyr that the Targaryen queen progresses further towards Westeros, hears the whispers of her dragons — three, they say, growing larger and more powerful rapidly. 

At night, Sansa dreams of dragons, one black-and-red, another bronze-and-green, and a third, gold-and-white, soaring overhead, and she finds herself awakening with a smile upon her face. A true smile, for once, rather than one that she must force to appear on her lips.

Even though she knows it is a foolish, childish hope, she still checks the skies to see if a dragon soars in them. 

* * *

Something changes in the air one day — a new lift to it, the sun peering through the clouds and snow — that makes Sansa’s spirit improve. A lightening of the sky, the burdens that had seemed to be stuck on her shoulders forever starting to grow less heavy and weighty. She feels change arriving in the winds. 

It is then that Sansa decides to descend further from the Eyrie, and she pins a plain, fur-lined cloak about her neck, ties her long hair back and shuns her ladylike dresses in favour of a plain one that recalls her past pretence as Alayne. She leaves without asking permission from her husband, only Mya seeing her off. 

“So you have finally decided to leave?” Mya asks her, even though they both already know the answer.

“Yes,” Sansa tells her, seeing no need for anything but brutal honesty. Mya’s strong; she’ll take the loss of Sansa stoically, as she does everything, with a firm jaw and smiling eyes. It is the reaction of Harrold and Petyr to the news of her loss that she fears, for she does not want the cage door of the Eyrie to be locked around her again when she is only just starting to taste freedom.

Mya gives her a hug, and this time there are tears on her cheeks. “I’ll miss you dearly. Good luck, Alay—Sansa,” she corrects herself.

Strangely, Sansa feels no tears in her eyes, only a sort of numbness deep in her soul. “Goodbye, Mya.” She tries to smile, to give Mya some happiness, here at the very end, but nothing comes. 

The descent down from the Eyrie is lonely and terrifying with Sansa having to keep herself company, for the mountains are frighteningly pale and bleak around her, the snows whirling around her. Sansa looks back, trying to make out Mya’s face, but it is lost in a cloud of grey fog and only the faint, dark shape of the gateway is visible. 

She stumbles as she turns back, and clutches at the barrier between her and the dark depths of the valleys beneath, her heart thumping heavily in her chest. Even the stone steps beneath her feel fragile, as if they could crumble at any moment and leave her to plummet as Lysa had. 

_I must be brave, like Ned and Robb,_ she tells herself, although it is difficult to be brave like them when both are dead, and Sansa can almost feel her own death emerging from the shadows and fog. A tendril of darkness emerges on her left, and it seems to be reaching towards her, stretching out a ghostly, deathly hand to take her — 

Sansa cannot help the scream that bursts from her mouth, nor the speed at which she runs, hair flowing wild-red behind her, down the steps, shunning any sense of carefulness in exchange for simply getting away from the fog. Her breath comes in heavy pants as she hurtles down, down, down, away from the Eyrie at last. 

* * *

Her scream draws attention: she hears the sound of armoured footsteps on the stone, and she runs faster, hoping to reach the last castle down and hide there until she can escape. It is just coming into view when she looks back, panic thrumming in her chest, and sees a man behind her, fast on her trail.

In front of her, she can only watch with dread building in her stomach as the portcullis snaps shut, leaving her trapped. She backs herself up against the barrier, stone digging through the layers of her cloak and dress into the skin of her back, foolishly hoping that they might not see her — but Sansa Stark’s luck has long since run dry, and so the cage door closes around her again. 

“My lady,” His breath comes out in pale puffs of smoke as he speaks, seeing Sansa standing against the barrier. “What are you doing out here, without company? Come, we should get you back to your husband and to safety.”

If Sansa had more spirit in her, if Sansa was as brave as she claimed to be, then she might have replied with her thoughts, words more fearsome than any blade. But, for all that she wishes to be brave, she is still a scared young girl without her direwolf, and there is no more courage for her to summon, for all who had courage are now dead and gone. 

She does not answer, and lets him put an arm around her, even though she sickens at the contact, lets him return her into the cage and lock the door tighter this time. There will be no flight for her now, unless it is a flight to the very bottom of the Vale. 

* * *

Mya’s eyes are distraught when she sees Sansa being brought back up with his arm around her shoulders, hunched into herself under her cloak, but she does not give Sansa away. When she is brought before Petyr and her lord husband, her excuse is that she had wished to go for a walk, but found herself wandering too far.

Petyr smiles down at her and grandly declares that she needs to return to her rooms to recover after her ordeal. Though she senses that her husband frowns in disapproval of Petyr’s statement, he does not overrule him, and allows Sansa to take to her rooms. 

Days turn into weeks, and weeks into months. Sansa feels that small taste of freedom slipping further and further away, until even the memory of it is unfamiliar to her. She withdraws from her friendship with Mya and Myranda, instead choosing to spend her time in varying stages of numbness, the grief of the war finally starting to sink in at last, and sinking in bone-deep. Tears seem to perpetually stain her cheeks, and Harrold starts to look at her with distaste in his gaze. 

She shuns Petyr’s company now. She had never shunned it before, but now she does not know if she can stomach any word of the war, stomach the news of more people dying, and dying for what? Only a throne made of swords and blood. 

Even prayer grows difficult, for what good could it do? Wars will not stop if Sansa prays — she has learned this through the most difficult way one can, by watching the war rage on even though she prayed to the Mother for mercy. There was no mercy.

* * *

It is a name that she hears one day, outside her door, a name that calls back to dreams of freedom, to letters scratched in bare, perfect ink. _Daenerys Targaryen has landed in Westeros,_ Petyr says, and he does not know that behind her door, Sansa thrills to learn of her progress. Little sparks ignite in her chest for the first time in what seems like eons, bringing her out of her grief, even if it is only a small tug. It is more than she has felt in months. 

To Sansa, even Daenerys Targaryen’s name feels like that of a goddess’s, descended to Westeros to wreak vengeance upon all those who have done wrong — and there are many who have done wrong in the Seven Kingdoms. So Sansa takes all the hope that she has placed upon this new Queen and stores it in her chest, pressing it right next to her heart. 

Sansa prays for Daenerys that evening, with her eyes lifted to the sky. She prays in lieu of Daenerys’s own prayers, for Targaryens do not pray to any gods except themselves. And she hopes, oh how she hopes. 

* * *

Word of Daenerys’s steadily-increasing power reaches her via sly whispers out of the corner of Petyr’s mouth, and silently, a revolution builds in Sansa’s heart, forged by the trails of fire that Daenerys is leaving. Her heart begins to beat less sluggishly, her spirit invigorated each time there is news of another victory for Daenerys. To Sansa, trapped in her cage and blind to the world, she seems to be almost invincible. 

The first loss for Daenerys that she hears of is almost like a stab to the chest, hurting acutely and painfully. It is nothing compared to the pain of the loss of Ned, or Robb, but still, it aches for days afterwards. 

Despite the losses, though, all seems to be moving steadily, and Daenerys’s burning path back to the throne continues unchecked. Until there is a new raven, one with rain-slick wings, and a letter sealed with the crest of a House long since forgotten. Two griffins combatant, red and white. 

“This is the signet of the Conningtons,” Petyr tells her, with dark eyes. “And they write to inform Westeros that Aegon Targaryen raises his banners in the Stormlands.” 

And Sansa can feel the game changing.

Petyr does not say anything else to her, afterwards, only lets her return to her rooms to think on it. Her thoughts are full of nebulous fear, worries that never quite manifest into something solid, leaving only faint dread left in her soul. 

* * *

“When will Winterfell be taken back?” Sansa asks him for the first time in a while. He returns only a small smile, full of cunningness and the joy of carefully-laid plans that are working their way to fruition.

Petyr’s hands go to her hair again, stroking through it with an uncomfortable intimacy. “Soon, my dear. Very soon.” 

She does not like how his fingers stay in her hair, seemingly caught up in it like his hand had tangled and snarled somewhere there. However, she does not dare ask him to tug his hands away lest his gaze on her turn angry. 

“You have said that for so long,” she replies, keeping her voice carefully neutral and innocent, exactly as he expected for her to be. “How much longer is there to wait?”

His hands keep stroking her hair, and his tone turns soft. “Only until the rest of them finish fighting like dogs. Then, my Sansa... then Winterfell will be handed to you on a golden platter. I promise you.” Petyr’s lips are close to hers, too close, but she can’t back away, for his hand in her hair pins her in place. “I will give you your home back.” His lips meet hers, then, forcing her to stop her breathing, a breath not let out still held in her chest as he kisses her. She tries to struggle as much as she can, but he holds her down. 

“Oh, Cat,” he whispers as he pulls away from her, still keeping his hand in her hair, trapping her. “Finally.”

Sansa struggles futilely against his grip on her hair. “I’m—I’m not my mother, Petyr!” She holds her breath after the display of anger she let out, but Petyr does not frown at her disapprovingly.

“No, you are not,” he says. “Cat... my Cat is dead, and you are all that is left.” He sounds more sorrowful than anything else, but not sorry for Sansa. Few people are ever sorry for Sansa Stark, even those who go far enough into her confidence as to dare to kiss her. 

“I’m Sansa,” she says, and a weight that she had not known she had been carrying falls from her shoulders. “I’m not my mother, or my father, and you would do well to learn that, Petyr Baelish.” Reaching up to the back of her head, she tugs his hand out, and not gently either — he groans in pain when she wrenches his hand away from her. She is done caring about his feelings, though, and thus she does not cast him a backwards glance as she leaves his private chambers. 

As she stalks through the halls, her gaze turned into black and full of rightful anger, burning coals waiting for vengeance, she makes up her mind to let herself free. She had not thought about it before, believing that she would have to be trapped forever until someone deigned to let her free from her cage, but now her anger gives her strength. Strength enough for her to confront those who have locked the cage around her. 

* * *

In the end, she needs no dragonfire to burn down the lock on her cage, only her own strength of will. She dares to march up to Harrold the Heir, while he is in the midst of some meeting about how to rule the Vale while Robin Arryn still suckles at some nursemaid’s teats, and tells him, in front of all his court:

“I am leaving the Eyrie, for good, and returning home.” She says it with utmost confidence, no room available for cowardice. “And you cannot stop me from doing so.”

He laughs it off, initially, sniggers unsubtly behind his hand to the other nobles at the table. But Sansa does not falter, stays there with firm resolve in her gaze as she waits. At last he finishes his laughing and looks at Sansa. This time, however, he really looks at Sansa, and what he sees in her shocks him, makes his eyes widen in surprise. 

“You can’t be serious about this, wife.” Harrold’s voice is befuddled, still not willing to treat Sansa as equal. “This is only a flight of fancy, and what you need is to sleep this off. Or — maester! — what treatments do you have for her?”

Sansa’s jaw stiffens, the obvious insult and dismissal in his words stinging. She does not let him win, though. The time for men to defeat Sansa is over: now she will do as the men do, stand up brave and bold, and argue back, take back the voice that they have stolen from her. “I need no such treatment. You forget yourself, husband. I am the Lady of Winterfell, blood of the direwolf, and you are only a lordling that still trades backhanded insults and japes with men older and stronger than you.” 

Her husband recoils from her, as if the sight of her disgusts him. He looks to Petyr, who has returned to his place besides the other noble lords with only a slightly rattled look in his eyes. “Baelish, tell her. This is foolishness!”

Petyr remains silent. 

“Not foolishness, no.” Her smile is small, yet victorious, as she turns her back to her husband, to all the noble lords of the Vale who would tell her what to do, and walks away from them. She knows that they are sure to be staring angrily, openly, at her as she leaves, but she does not care about their thoughts on her any more. 

As she is readying to leave, pinning a travelling cloak in place on her chest, she remembers that there are two goodbyes that she must say. One for Myranda, and one for Mya. She thought that she had forgotten them, left them to be alone forever. Yet she has just broken forever, cracked her cage into small pieces, and forever is thus made only temporary.

Sansa lets her hair flow free, unburdened by Petyr’s fingers that had tangled there earlier, and tugs all falcon ornaments draped through her hair out, not minding the sting on her scalp. She does not run a bone-toothed comb through her hair either, for she is no longer a lord’s wife, but a direwolf, and direwolves have no need for finely combed hair.

She casts only a cursory glance at the eyes who question her as she passes, for they matter not to her, and heads towards Myranda’s quarters, silently hoping that she has not moved chambers since Sansa had last seen her — weeks, months ago, perhaps. ‘Randa is still there, thankfully, and Sansa hesitates at the door to her chambers, starting to doubt herself.

Tremulously, she knocks on the door, steeling herself internally, and she hears Myranda call out “Enter!” from inside. So she does, hand clutched in a fist in the folds of her cloak. 

Myranda almost drops her goblet, managing to catch it before any wine sloshes out. She stands up, surprise turning her mouth circular. “Sansa? I had thought you did not wish to see me any more.”

“This will be the last time, ‘Randa,” Sansa murmurs quietly. Myranda still hears her.

She finds herself embraced in warm arms, a plump body against hers. Sansa blinks away the tears that are starting to form in her eyes and hugs Myranda back. 

“Oh, _Sansa_ ,” is all Myranda can say, and that is enough. 

After saying her goodbyes to Myranda, it is only Mya that she has left to bid farewell to. Mya, the last and most important one of all in the Eyrie, or at least it seems to her. 

The snow is still whirling in the wind, this time, and Mya is still staring out over the Vale when Sansa comes upon her. Mya’s eyes, when she turns to Sansa, are stone, rock, solid. She knows why Sansa is here. 

“It’s really happening this time, then?” Mya asks her. 

Sansa just nods, and the snow lifts a piece of her hair into her face and over her eyes, which she pushes away. Mya is still standing there, steady, like the foundations of a castle. 

They do not hug goodbye; they have done that already. Nor are there any tears, for the time for tears is past. Instead, Mya takes Sansa’s face in warm, woolen-gloved hands and pulls her close. She leans in with her eyes closed, and lets Mya’s lips press gently against hers, warm and soft, unlike any other kiss Sansa has ever had in that it is given with kindness and — love. Some kind of love that Sansa can finally feel joyful about.

“I will remember you,” Sansa promises, with one hand cupping Mya’s cheek. “All my life, I will remember you.” And Mya must know that she means it, for she only kisses Sansa again, more fiercely, before letting her go. There are no other words that need to be said, and besides, they would only be unnecessary. 

* * *

She makes it out of the Vale unscathed, despite the vicious mountain clans said to inhabit it. The journey is cold, but she is a Stark, and the true winter has still not set in — when it does, it will be far more brutal. And so she finds herself returning to the Trident again, older and wiser with a haunted look in her eyes.

All traces of summer have disappeared from the land: no more green fields, or sparkling water rushing into the notches of the Trident. Only bare trees and cold water are left there, and Sansa kneels by the side of one of the trickling streams, not caring about the mud marring the base of her dress, and lifts water from the stream within her cupped hands. She drinks greedily, with little care for any dignity, the water dripping down her chin, before her thirst is satiated. 

It is when Sansa looks up from the stream, hands still damp, and into the sky that she sees the dragon, soaring through the clouds, and her breath is lost in her throat. The dragon is barely visible, but even the little she can see is impressive, powerful wings beating at the air, scaled tail twisting and coiling. She only hopes that there is a rider aback it. 

Sansa starts to shout, cupping her hands around her mouth and crying out as loud as she can. “ _Down here!_ ” 

The dragon seems to be descending, and for a moment stupid, foolish hope blooms in her chest —

It flies away, back into the clouds that Sansa can never reach, no matter how much she may stretch for them and desire to. She tries to pretend to herself that the disappointment in her chest hurts more than it does. 

* * *

Few inns remain open along the kingsroad, and Sansa has to walk until her feet start to hurt in their leather boots to find an inn that will take her for a night. She talks little with the owners, but just enough that she knows where Daenerys Targaryen is. 

“The word from the East is that the Targaryen queen allies herself with Dorne, and sails northwards, to the Reach and the Westerlands, but her dragons... her dragons have descended upon Westeros, and brought fear to all the commonfolk with them. We are terrified, my lady, that one day we shall wake up and find all our livestock disappeared, plucked up in their fearsome jaws. Mark my words — with those dragons, she does not need to be heir to the throne. When Aegon Targaryen sees those beasts in the Stormland skies, there will be a reckoning, and she shall win.” His eyes are terrified in the warm firelight. “Be safe when you leave us, my lady.”

“I shall,” Sansa promises them, and slips them an extra golden dragon the next morning when she leaves. 

* * *

She finds a horse left languishing by the wayside, thinks it nearly dead initially before noticing that its nostrils still moved to inhale and exhale air. Guiding it to the nearest stream, Sansa lets it lap up the water and graze at the grass on the banks, sighing in relief when it grows livelier. The bridle and saddle are not on the horse, so she must ride with the bones of its back digging into her thighs and her fingers snarled in its mane, but the discomfort is worth it for the speed that moving horseback affords her.

Each night, she leads the horse away from the kingsroad and finds a clearing where the two of them can rest. Initially, she finds it difficult to sleep with the bark of a tree at her back, digging into the skin there, or the sharp edges of twigs prodding at her legs, but she grows used to it. A bed for the night becomes a luxury, food even more of a luxury; she goes several days without eating anything, and becomes so weak that she fears she may fall off her horse. 

Whenever she meets anyone on her travels, she is sure to ask them about Daenerys Targaryen’s movements, and she divines that Daenerys is sailing northwards to make war on Casterly Rock and the Lannisters, and adjusts her journey to take her to Casterly Rock. Still, Daenerys seems so far away, and Sansa’s movements so slow in comparison, that she starts to doubt if she will ever make it to Daenerys at all. 

Even as Casterly Rock grows closer, Sansa still has reservations, insecurities that she tries to ignore, but are inescapable when she has nothing but her thoughts and horse for company every day. She wonders if Daenerys will see Sansa as a useful acquisition at all, if she will make it to Casterly Rock only to watch Daenerys sail away with the same sickening disappointment in her stomach. It does her no good to ponder over them, but she cannot help herself.

* * *

When Casterly Rock does come into sight, it seems almost unreal that it is truly happening. Sansa dismounts from her horse and stares wide-eyed at the city: though she has heard the tales, they do not come close to describing the splendour of Casterly Rock. Gold veins run through the very rock on which the city is built on, and it seems to stand proud still, unaffected by the war. 

She finds that her horse is lost, when she turns back from admiring Casterly Rock, but she smiles, because it matters not. Her pouch of coins is still intact at her belt, and nobody has recognised her as Sansa Stark yet. The marketplace around the outskirts of the city is busy and bustling, and it will make it harder for anyone to find her: she walks into it with her red hair flowing freely and a hand securing her coin pouch to her belt. 

It takes her longer than she had thought to make it to the harbour, and the sun is starting to dip low in the sky by the time she can smell the salt of the sea upon her nose. The captains of the ships moored there are starting to close up their pleasure-boats for the day, and it makes Sansa rush, nearly tripping over her own steps as she hurries to find a pleasure-boat that is still open.

Out on the sea, in the distance, she can see a fleet of ships, a dragon circling overhead. Daenerys is in sight, at last, and oh, Sansa is joyful to see her there. 

She finds a pleasure-boat that is still open, with no customers ahead of her. A smile starts to blossom on her face as she marches up to the captain. “Passage for one out to the Dragon Queen’s ships,” she declares, already holding out a palmful of golden dragons. 

The captain stutters as he responds. “P-passage to one of the Dragon Queen’s ships? Madness! You’ll be incinerated before you even get close!”

“All the same,” Sansa replies, “this is what I want.” She thrusts the golden dragons gently at the captain. “This will make it worth your while, won’t it?” His eyes light up at the sight of the money, and she has to stifle a laugh. Men are so easy, so predictable, with things like these. 

“All right,” the captain nods. “But if it gets dangerous, then I’m backing out.”

Sansa nods to show her understanding. 

“Get in, then,” he gestures to the boat, and so Sansa does, grimacing a little at the feeling of the boat rocking beneath her weight. The captain settles onto the bench opposite her, tugs the mooring rope off the boat, and takes both oars in his hands to row them out towards Daenerys’s fleet.

Beneath her, the boat rocks gently, and the sea is clear, azure-blue around her. Out on the sea, it is calm, almost peaceful, with the salt-spray that stings Sansa’s eyes seemingly the only issue. The pleasure-boat is quiet, neither the captain nor Sansa speaking, and the rock of the oars against the sides of the ship soothing. 

They are half-way between Casterly Rock and Daenerys’s fleet when the dragon comes.

Up this close, Sansa can see that this dragon is black-and-red, its scales smooth and slick, its eyes full of more than merely maleficence alone. And atop its back is the Dragon Queen herself.

Daenerys yells down at them, her dragon’s wings beating gusts of air against the canopy of the pleasure-boat, “Why do you sail to meet me? What business do you have with us?”

Sansa stumbles to her feet and to the prow of the pleasure-boat, ignoring the strong rocking beneath her feet. “I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and I sail to meet you to offer my alliance!” Her voice weakens a little, and she clutches a hand in the fabric of her cloak after she has said her piece, hoping that Daenerys shall not decide to incinerate the pleasure-boat where it is and leave Sansa dead. 

“I grant you my mercy!” Daenerys roars back. “You may sail to the head ship of my fleet, and I shall meet you there.” With that being said, Daenerys flies her dragon away, towards the ship at the head of her fleet. Sansa stays standing there for a moment longer, staring after her in all-consuming awe. 

“Sit down,” the captain tells her, his tone expressing irritation but his lips curving into a smile. “I cannot row with you standing up like that.”

She smiles and does so, folding her hands in her lap and trembling with unspoken excitement.

* * *

When she is finally face-to-face with Daenerys, she struggles for words, for nothing that she can think of is fit to greet the woman in front of her. In the end, she simply bows and says, “Your Majesty.”

“Stand,” Daenerys tells her, and Sansa does. She finds herself looking down at Daenerys’s eyes, a clear, perfect violet, at Daenerys’s Essosi manner of dress. Daenerys wears a pale-violet dress that is cut low enough to expose much of her chest, and Sansa blushes when she notices that. 

Sansa cannot tell Daenerys that she had been expecting to see her for what now seems like eons, or that her heart is pounding hard enough to burst out of her chest and that her normally-pale cheeks are flushed bright red. She thinks that Daenerys already knows one of those things. 

“Rest awhile.” The smile that Daenerys gives her is true and bright, and if Sansa looks closely enough, she thinks she can see a blush on Daenerys’s cheeks, as well. “Then, we may discuss... _negotiations_.” 

“I look forwards to it, my Queen.” 

“You may take my quarters,” Daenerys says after she turns away, looking over her shoulder coyly. “And you are welcome to any services you may desire, be it food, water, or... other things.” 

It seems impossible that Sansa can flush any more, but she does. “My thanks. You are very generous, Daenerys—my queen.” 

“Please, Daenerys. You are equally as powerful as me, are you not?” Turning around again, Daenerys takes her hand and presses a light, lingering kiss to Sansa’s bared knuckles, gazing into Sansa’s eyes as she does so. “And I look forwards to _negotiations_ with you as well.”

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments make my heart go 💕💞💗💞💕!!


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